Monday, August 24, 2015

Sunday, August 23, 2015

I'm doing the second draft of my novel, and am sad I will have to say
good-bye to its characters eventually. They are parts of my heart. But a
sequel would be superficial. It's not like a comic book series; there
is no turning back.

***

The waiter returned with the drinks. Alice downed hers as soon as it
came.
Wheezy’s eyes widened. “Christ, kid, you can gulp it down!!” With a steely eyed smirk, Alice mashed her cigarette in the tray. “That’s not all I can gulp down, Uncle Wheezy. Watch.” To Wheezy’s astonishment. Alice sank beneath the tablecloth.

Thursday, August 13, 2015

The following is the final section I will be posting of my novel's first draft. Titled
"That's Show Biz", it centers on the crew at The Candl Club, a
cafe/strip club on Manhattan's Lower East Side in the mid-late 1950s.

Stripper Sugar Red tells Paul, an ex-lover, of her problems with Wheezy Gibson, an abusive comedian who's bullied his way into living in Red's home. Paul speaks first:

“So what keeps you from telling him
to go fuck himself?”

“Laziness, I guess. And fear.”

“Fear?”

“He beats me, Paul. We beat each
other. I thought that hitting him back would make him back off, but he actually
seems to enjoy it! I’ve tried to break with him/kick him out of here, but he’s
threatening and I’m scared. I’m bigger than he is, but I just don’t feel the
confidence any more/now. Every time I feel like I’m breaking out of that shell,
he puts me down and makes me feel ashamed and ridiculous. And I buy it; I don’t
know what it is; but I feel hurt. So hurt…”

Paul started to understand.

“He always reminds me that I’m just
a goddamn stripper. Even if I snap my fingers to music, he’s said, ‘Save it for
the act, slut.’ And laughs at me! He just doesn’t want me to be happy at all.
And he’s got all this stuff here, and I feel trapped just by the clutter. When
I’m out of the club, it’s hard just to get up from the television set. I mean
it’s hard for me to move, Paul. I’m so depressed. He’s doing that on purpose,
and it’s killing me anyway. That’s a part that makes me hate myself. He’s doing
it to me, I KNOW IT, and I can’t get up the energy/will to break away.”

Paul didn’t know what to say. A
thought clouded his mind: Is she begging me to take her away from it all? What
have I got? An apartment with my mother in it. And why the hell should Red
leave her own home because of Wheezy? How can I help? What am I going to do??

Monday, August 10, 2015

The following is another section of my novel's first draft. Titled
"That's Show Biz", it centers on the crew at The Candl Club, a
cafe/strip club on Manhattan's Lower East Side in the mid-late 1950s. This almost immediately follows the incidents in PREVIEW #2.

In the earlier part of the evening Sugar Red, a stripper at the club, was physically abused, as was the habit of Wheezy Gibson, a club comic who has forced his way into her home as a live-in lover. Afterwards, they left to perform at the club as usual, and arrive back at Red's place at about 2:30 am...

After they got back to Red’s,
Wheezy hit the pillow and was snoring immediately. The night was pitch black but
for the moonlight shining in through the picture window. Red felt so tense with
anger, she imagined hearing blood hissing within her head.

What have I got to lose? Nothing.

Something within her snapped. Suddenly,
she felt calm. She walked into the kitchen and, as silently as she could,
picked her way through the silverware until she came upon the biggest, sharpest
steak knife she owned. She took care pulling it out, not allowing the steak
knife to clang against any of the other utensils. She left the drawer open
behind her. She couldn’t waste any time on that. Red slithered down the hall,
holding the knife in one fist, guiding herself along the wall with the other
hand. Only the chirping of the crickets in her little garden could be heard.
She walked into the bedroom. She approached the bed, raising the knife slowly
as she approached. There was just a split second for her to see the bed was
empty before Wheezy’s arms wound around her from behind. He grabbed the wrist
with the weapon and squeezed and twisted it. But Red had been pushed over the
edge. With her other hand, she raked her nails down Wheezy’s face; down his
eyes.

Wheezy squeaked/yelped, jerking his
hands to his face. Released, Red lunged into Wheezy with the knife. She raked
it against his stomach. This time he squealed like a pig, and doubled back into
the wall, knocking the lamp and clock from the night stand. “You BITCH!!”
Hunched before him, Red’s teeth were bared. Her nostrils flared. She was
actually snorting like a beast. Her eyes were red rimmed and wide. Now,
gripping his wound, it was Wheezy who was trembling. He could only whisper,
“no…don’t…” before Red sprang at him again. They hit the wall and tumbled over
each other, the fight now confined to that tiny corner of the bedroom. Red got
confused in the darkness. Her eyes flashed around as she tried to get oriented.
And sure enough, Wheezy’s fist connected full in her face.

Once again, Red lay huddled on the
floor as Wheezy rose to his feet. He was about to give the stripper a good kick
in the stomach when he remembered…and saw his stomach wound. He sprang to the
bedroom, soaked the wound with a warm washcloth, and applied every substance in
the medicine cabinet, grimacing under the sting of the medicines far more than
the wound itself. He tied one of Red’s monogrammed towels around his
midsection. Then he staggered into the bedroom and fell on the bed. Again, he
snored almost immediately.

Red woke with a start as soon as
daylight came. She lifted herself from the floor into a kneeling position, and
saw Wheezy lying on his stomach, snoring loudly.

Jeez, I didn’t kill him, she
thought.

Red was comforted, if only by the
fact that she had less chance to be sent to prison. But how much less chance?
She tugged Wheezy onto his back, and carefully untied the towel from around his
midsection. Thank God, it appeared to be a surface wound, the blood congealed.

Red plodded into the kitchen and
sat at the table. All the mess, the bottles and glasses and poker chips, lay
scattered in a puddle of beer on the floor. Now what would happen? Another
fight with Wheezy, a knock down drag out for all eternity? Red was merely
annoyed by the thought of it. Just more of the same; more of the shit her life
had turned into. She pouted and sulked as a dull eyed Wheezy entered the room
in his bathrobe. Leaning against the doorjamb and clutching his midsection, he
said, “Listen, baby; I think it best that we don’t mention last night to
anyone. O.K.?”

Sunday, August 9, 2015

The following is another section of my novel's first draft. Titled "That's Show Biz", it centers on the crew at The Candl Club, a
cafe/strip club on Manhattan's Lower East Side in the mid-late 1950s.

Wheezy Gibson, an unpleasant and married comedian, intimidates his way into becoming the live-in lover of Sugar Red, a stripper at the club.

The time Wheezy didn’t owe to Wifey
was spent at Red’s home. Sometimes he’d take her out on the town to shrill
night clubs and casinos to show off “what he had”. He installed a new set of
weights in the house, and would work out a few times a week. Outside of performing, this
was all the pair did aside from fucking or just laying around the house. Paul
would lie on the bed, sloppy and shirtless, watching Red’s television, eating
snacks. And he’d spend the rest of the time making sure Red was as miserable as
he was.

If Red was caught in a spontaneous
dance around the room, Wheezy would crack something like, “What are you,
DANCING? Hang it up, baby. You’re not in dance school any more. You’re a
STRIPPER and nothing else.” He’d invariably switch the radio to some sports
broadcast, and let Red suck on it. Red’s playing her own jazz records was out.
Keeping her house ice cold? Forget it. Wheezy would turn the heat up too high
and let her squirm. Even if Red went out to water the plants, there would be
interrogations and putdowns.

“You’ll do as I tell you! Do you
understand?? YOU’LL DO AS I TELL YOU!!”

He started inviting his unwholesome
friends over to loaf. Men managing to make their expensive/tailored suits look
sleazy; men who had the looks of being connected to “the mob”. They’d show each
other their guns and discuss their virtues. Or they’d play poker, Wheezy
looking proud as Red emptied ashtrays. Sometimes he’d slap her on the butt, and
didn’t protest when his friends began doing it too. What’s a stripper’s ass between
friends? Once in a while, Wheezy would turn to her and say, “And listen, babe.
Keep your mouth shut.” And the guys around the table would nudge one another,
harshly cackling over their inside joke.

One night of this, Red revolted;
she hurled a tray of beers at the group. Oh, they just couldn’t believe it. Why
on earth did she do that?Open mouthed
and crosseyed with confusion they looked to Wheezy for protection and justice. Why
did she do that, Wheezy? We just don’t understand it. Wheezy knew what he had
to do. He pulled Red into the bedroom and beat the living daylights out of her,
making sure the blows were loud enough to be heard by “the guys”.

Red remained on the floor, gasping
and weeping. Wheezy returned to the kitchen to finish his hand. Red zoned out.
What else was there to do? She just closed her eyes and checked out of Planet
Earth.

Friday, August 7, 2015

A crisis hotline person told me they receive calls from artists involved with Disney all the time.

***

I was sketching in a waiting room, and the man next to me asked me if I
worked for Disney (as everyone asked artists in the mid 1990s). I told
him I had done proposal artwork for them, but that was it. He said he
worked as a lawyer there.
I said, "They have more lawyers there than artists now."
He replied: "Yeah; to keep the rest of them out of jail."

Red cleaned her pancake makeup off properly in the ladies’ room. Then,
realizing she might or might not be returning for a while, she walked
into her dressing room to gather a few items to bring home. To her
dismay, lying on the couch was Wheezy. He smoked a cigar, had a beatific
expression, and a huge exposed erection.
Red sighed and put her hands on her hips. “Alright, Wheezy, what is this??” “Come on, Red, it’s not as if you’ve never seen it before.” “I’ve seen it, I’ve sucked it, I’ve fucked it. But why is it out at this moment?”
Wheezy got up from the couch and ambled towards Sugar Red, his cock out
and bobbing in front of him. “Oh, come on, Red. For the moment, I’m
bereft of feminine company. Then I thought of you and this came up.”
Wheezy grinned smugly and shrugged. “I figured we might pick up
where we left off.” Sugar Red was insulted. “So you think you can just come back and get it? Pig.” “Cunt.” “Out." Red jerked her thumb at the door. Wheezy looked as self satisfied as ever. “Come on, baby. I’ll make it worth your while…”Red eyed him resentfully. She opened her
mouth to say something, then changed her mind, tilted her head and said
something else. “This time you’ll pay through your fat nose, runt.” “Of course, m’lady. Only the best for my whores.” Red shut her eyes. “Well, I’ll see you tonight.” Wheezy stepped forward, vaguely menacing. “Oh, no, babe. Papa wants a little action now to seal the bargain.” Red looked in his eyes sternly. “Then Papa pay now; that’s the way I bargain.”
Wheezy took on that smug little smile, reached in his wallet, withdrew
some cash and waved it in Red’s face. He snatched it away when Red
reached for it. “I oughta make you bark”, he said. Red was ready to
object, but Wheezy slipped the money into her hand.